


My love is like a red red blooddrop

by sirona



Series: My Immortal [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Established Relationship, M/M, Vampire tropes galore, being held down during sex, elements of d/s, super blue blood moon, surprise werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 08:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13543839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: The one where they schedule the anniversary of "the Battle of Whatthefuckever" on a triple moon event. What could possibly go wrong, Clint asks you. Also the one with the shouldn't-be-but-is-surprise werewolf.





	My love is like a red red blooddrop

**Author's Note:**

> Part 3 of the Vampire Phil series - because when you have a super blue blood moon going on, I naturally have to write about vampires. Many thanks to 17Pansies for her unending support of this verse and for nudging at my ideas until the fic is way better. 
> 
> Warnings for: the usual things that you'd expect to crop up in a vampire fic, also for sex while one partner is being held down.

“Yaknow,” Clint sighs gently. 

Phil knows that sigh. Knows it intimately, and also exactly what is likely to—

“Just once, I mean, I know it’s a lot to ask, but _just once_ , I _wish_ things would not go straight to FUBAR, do not pass go, do not collect ice cream on the way to hell.”

\- And there it is. He resists the urge to rub that spot at the top of his nose where he can feel his forehead scrunching. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, again. It’s not his fault, but… It’s also not _not_ his fault, exactly. 

It’s complicated. 

“I mean,” Clint continues, meanly, as he slots another magazine into the semi-automatic he had filched from one of Swedish Coven Chief Olson’s bodyguards. “I get that getting a bunch of head honcho vampires in a small space is asking for trouble, no matter how _civilized_ or _controlled_ or insert-corporate-speak-here. And you did warn me, and I did say yes, I remember distinctly saying yes as you were sucking my cock really really nicely.”

Phil gives in and rubs at his forehead, digging his thumb in and wishing it would just go through his brain and put him out of his misery. 

“What I’m saying is, I get that. I’d understand if it was simply a side effect of getting all the supreme leaders in one place. _But no._ You had to schedule your anniversary of the Battle of Whatthefuckever _on a triple moon event_. Nothing could _possibly_ go wrong.”

That was a lot of inflection for a fairly short sentence. Phil winces while Clint isn’t looking, too busy scoping the castle on the opposite hill through the sniper sight he always carries with him. 

The thing is – professional paranoia is all well and good. But the thing that makes Phil seethe this time, is that they’re supposed to be on vacation. Sure, a coven gathering is a necessary evil to be endured, but after that it was supposed to be crisp sheets and gauzy curtains, and snowflakes drifting from the sky, and bundled-up walks on Charles Bridge, and silky spiked hot chocolate in small cozy taverns. 

But _no_ , he thinks viciously as he checks the bleeding of his side wound that is not slowing down, everything damn it. No, the asshole son of the British Coven Chair has to saunter into the meet and act like an entitled little prick, and nobody could kill him without causing an international incident. A position that changed shortly after, when a crowd of adrenaline-hyped young vampires had stormed the castle and attempted a coup. Seriously. Fucking _children_. How did they _think_ it would end? 

The problem is the synthetic anticoagulant they‘d spread over their sharp implements. A vampire’s blood is thicker than most by design, which is why it needs to be regularly replenished with healthy blood cells. But when the natural coagulants are weakened beyond a certain point, it flows like water out of a bottle. Phil had been luckier than most by only sustaining a stab to his side. Some vampires he had known for centuries hadn’t fared so well. 

So, he and Clint had volunteered to track down the last of the fleeing younglings and sedate them to await trial. An easy enough job, if Phil can just _stop this bleeding_.

“You need to feed,” Clint says directly by his ear. Phil doesn’t remember him moving, which means he is losing time, which means very not good things. What the fuck was on that blade?

There is another reason Phil is luckier than most. Feeding from a stranger might have sped up his healing by a few hours. Feeding from his mate - it will have him whole in about thirty minutes. Which doesn’t mean he’s happy about weakening Clint in any way, ever. 

“Phil,” Clint says. A warm hand comes to rest on Phil’s cheek, tilting his head up to look into Clint’s pretty eyes. “Remember that talk about not being an idiot? Now’s that time. Drink.”

“Yeah, okay,” Phil relents. He turns to nuzzle his lips over Clint’s skin, the familiar smell always soothing despite the city not their own. Clint turns him so his shoulder and side are resting against Clint’s chest, giving them opposing lines of sight while Phil sinks his teeth into the offered wrist. A sharp intake of breath is the only response, lost under the delicious, addictive taste of Clint’s blood filling him up, healing him, supplementing his unnatural strength until Phil is pretty sure he could take the rogue younglings single-handed. 

There is a kiss over his forehead as he licks the punctures closed, broadcasting affection and protectiveness so loudly it’s a wonder they haven’t been noticed. 

“Good job,” Clint says, approving. Phil gives him a look, and Clint grins. “You’re acting like a big boy, so you get praise. And also you owe me a week of breakfasts in bed and fucking me through the excellent mattress at the hotel.”

“Uh huh,” Phil says, though disagreement is far from his mind. His sharpened hearing places three slow heartbeats a few streets out from their spot. _[Two left, four down, three]_ he broadcasts, tagging the location onto the telepathic map he sends Clint. 

_[Got it]_ Clint thinks, returning smugness and childish satisfaction. Phil gets it. Getting even with people who hurt Clint will always carry a wave of rightness that he is learning to recognize and accept without feeling remotely guilty for it. 

As one, they drop soundlessly past the wall and onto the street, corralling the unwary vampires and quickly dropping them into drugged stupor. Phil takes his phone out and texts Valeri their location, gets back ‘nice, those last ones’, and nods at Clint with a hint of the same smugness. They turn on their heels and head out, back to the hotel for the so-late-it’s-early part of the night, where Phil can curl around Clint and leech his warmth and luxuriate in the feeling of the fullness of his arms matching the one in his heart.

“So, question,” Clint says, swinging an arm around Phil’s shoulders. “The full moon thing. I was kinda joking before, but does it make you guys go craaazy, like wolf-out-wild? Extra-pointy teeth? Ten o’clock shadow?”

“How many times?” Phil asks the sky. “There is no such thing as werewolves.”

“Right, right. But what about vampires, though? Those legends have to come from somewhere. Hey, wasn’t there that vamp who could turn into a wolf and a bat? I know I saw that movie that one time.”

‘This is why I love him,’ Phil tells himself wearily. ‘He’s an asshole and an irritating twerp when he wants to be, but I love him. Kind of a lot.’

“Hey, are you making fun of me? I saw that face, Phillip Coulson. I am making an excellent point here, thank you so much. You have a supermoon _and_ a blue moon _and_ a blood moon going, all on one night. If that doesn't get your residual Mister Fluffy out, I don't know what would.”

Phil attempts to look offended, is aware he fails. “Okay, first of all,” he starts - but never gets to finish, because just then a wolf howls. From very, very close by. 

“I was kidding,” Clint hisses defensively when Phil glares at him. “But that means I’m right though, don't it?”

“Stop grinning like that,” is all Phil can come up with. “Also, it's probably someone's very loud tv set.”

“Or not,” Clint says, a slight panic detectable in his voice as they freeze mid-step due to the very large, blond-ish wolf suddenly blocking the end of the cobblestone alley. It has bright blue eyes, and there's something vaguely familiar about it… 

“Nice doggy,” Clint says tightly. When the wolf doesn’t move, or growl, or attack in any way, Clint _starts to relax_ , the idiot. “I think it’s okay. It doesn’t look like it wants to eat me, at least. I kind of want to pet it?”

The wolf lowers its head and sniffs the air between them. It looks docile, almost friendly. Like it might start panting and wagging its tail at any moment. Clint takes a step closer.

Jesus Christ. “Stay _back_ , Barton,” Phil says, trying to get in front of Clint - who is, yes, purposefully staying between Phil and the wolf, like he wants to shield him or something equally absurd. Phil shakes himself and focuses all his powers of suggestion into his eyes and respectively on the possibly-werewolf. “Hey there.”

“Hey, guys!” Bucky Barnes says, slightly out of breath as he hurtles around the corner. “Have you seen… Oh. _There_ you are.”

“Barnes?!” they both demand. Phil can feel his adrenaline wondering what the hell is going on and which way it should spike. Clint is probably doing worse, with his twice as high blood pressure. 

“Steve,” Barnes says, exasperated and looking at- the wolf. Of fucking course. 

“Serum?” Phil says wearily, while Clint looks between them with growing shock. 

“Apparently,” Barnes agrees. “Though this hasn't happened before. One moment Steve says you’re in danger, the next - wolf. I wonder what triggered it.”

“The moon. It was the moon,” Clint supplies helpfully. “Because of the super blue blood thing.”

But Phil is not to be distracted. “What are you two doing here? I don't recall there being an Avengers mission in this area.”

“Uh, no,” Bucky says sheepishly. “We heard you talking about going to Prague, and Steve said he hasn't been since that time during the war, and I thought it’d be fun to go together, and I- we. Well.”

Phil presses a palm over his eyes, rubs his temples while he’s at it. “Where are the others?”

Steve whines lowly and comes to nose at them, specifically at Phil's side. 

“I’m fine,” Phil says, patting Steve's head. Steve nuzzles into his hand and pants. Phil looks at Barnes expectantly. 

“Natasha's looking for Steve at the meatpacking warehouses, we thought he might have been tempted that way. Stark is… Flying around somewhere, I guess. Banner is sitting this one out. Lucky him.” He looks resigned, but his bio hand is buried in the fur over Steve's neck, stroking it soothingly. Steve lets out a growling huff and falls sideways against Barnes’ legs, bumping him hard enough to jar him - he is a lot of wolf. He looks up at Bucky like he is the brightest thing in the sky, moon be damned. Yup. It's definitely Steve.

“We’re on vacation,” Clint laments, pouting in a manner not at all fetching. “Shit. Will Steve turn back?”

Three pairs of eyes turn beseechingly to Phil. He sighs. “Probably. Once the full moon is past, he should be okay. Take him back to your hotel, look after him. Call me in the morning.”

“You’re being awfully calm about this,” Clint notes suspiciously once Barnes has led a docile wolf-Steve away. 

Phil looks at him. “I’m a centuries old vampire. You are my mate. Are you really going to start being surprised by the things we don't know about the world at this stage?”

Clint acquiesces meekly, taking hold of Phil's hand and turning them towards their hotel. 

“Please can we deal with the fallout tomorrow?” he begs. “Can we just go to our room and eat a bunch of takeout and sleep? I won’t even mock you about how you said there weren’t any werewolfs for two thousand years before walking right into one.”

“Mighty generous of you. And yes, yes we can.” Phil squeezes Clint's hand reassuringly. “We can safely assume that nothing else that goes bump in the night will be scarier than me.”

“Cocky. I like it. Hey, you know what else I like? The hard-”

“Yes, Clint, thank you.”

There is only one known way in the whole universe to shut Clint Barton up. Phil tugs him closer, presses their lips together, swallows whatever sass was waiting behind them. Clint sighs into it, winding an arm around Phil's neck and leaning most of his weight against him. Clint likes doing that, likes knowing that Phil can take all of him and never waver. It’s a thing they both appreciate, a trust built between them over a decade of missions and domesticity and rare few days away together. Phil knows that only steady, patient fortitude will convince Clint that Phil will never, ever walk away, and he is happy to continue in that vein for all the years to come. Clint’s trust, his generously granted affection for everything that Phil is, is a headier brew than any Nick or Natasha could mix. 

\--- 

The hotel they wind their way towards is an old favourite, the same place they stayed ten or so years ago when they were new to the thing happily humming between them. Clint had fallen in love with the soft yet supporting mattress and the many, many pillows to flop onto after a full day of adventuring outside. Phil himself was impressed with the view and the location, conveniently dropping them in the middle of the old city. Despite his age, he is still as partial to old, ornate architecture as he had been the first time round, when he had watched it being discovered and raised around him. 

The lobby is a welcome warmth, glowing softly with the light of dozens of crystal lamps perched on walls and elaborately carved furniture. Despite the late hour, the night manager inclines his head at them with a smile before returning to his computer. The stairs to their floor aren’t that many, but Phil suddenly feels every drop of blood lost earlier tonight, and he herds Clint towards the elevator with a hand at the small of his back. Clint doesn’t complain despite his dislike of small moving spaces, so he must be just as tired. He lists into Phil’s side while Phil unlocks their door and pushes it open, then trudges through with a sigh of relief.

Phil has only taken two and a half steps into the room before he feels Clint stiffen. 

“Noooo,” Clint whines, flinging himself dramatically onto the side of the bed not occupied by Natasha, who is sitting cross-legged at the base with a patience game spread all around her. “Go away. We’re _on vacation_.”

“Hello to you too, darling,” Natasha says sweetly, turning several cards over in slow, ponderous succession. 

“Phil, make her go away,” he thinks Clint says; it’s hard to distinguish actual words when Clint’s face is mashed into the poofy double duvet. 

“Tea?” he says instead, smiling at Natasha. It’s no good trying to budge her before she’s ready to go.

“I brought cognac,” Natasha says, pointing a dark maroon-tipped finger at the desk, where a fat bottle of Hennessy promises to soothe some of Phil’s frazzled nerves. 

“Splendid.” 

The _thock_ of the cork leaving the neck drowns out most of Clint’s muttered “I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t,” Natasha says, mouth pursed to hide a grin. 

“No, I don’t,” Clint agrees despairingly, raising himself on an elbow to take the proffered glass of silky amber liquid. “Why are you here, though. All I wanted was a shower and an orgasm; playing host at -” a glance towards the antique wall clock “- _four thirty am_ was definitely not on the schedule.”

“Can’t help you with the latter, but I can run the hot water for you if you like.”

Clint narrows his eyes. “Why are you here, exactly?” he asks again suspiciously.

Natasha grins, wolf-like, which is a little too on-the-nose after the night’s events. 

“James needed a couple of hours to try and shift Steve, and the bed is much too small for two people and an enormous wolf.”

“Look, Nat, I love you, but you are _not_ sleeping here,” Clint states. 

Phil sighs. “Clint.”

“No, goddamn it. I need you naked right now and I don’t want Nat to get an eyefull."

“You are a child,” Natasha says flatly.

“Not with what I intend to do to my mate, I’m not.”

Natasha snorts, then pulls the two decks of cards neatly together. “Relax, loverboy, I was only passing time until James smuggled Steve into the hotel. He’s much cuddlier than you are, anyway.”

“That is a filthy lie.” Clint sits up, incensed. “I cuddle much better than Steve does!”

“One - no, you don’t. And two - I thought you were throwing me out?”

“Oh. Right. Let’s get back to that.”

“Good luck with him,” Natasha tells Phil, unfolding and slipping a pair of leather fleece-lined booties on her feet, hiding the rest of herself under a sheepskin coat that she belts tightly around her waist. “Don’t tell me about it in the morning.”

“Coffee at 10.30-ish? That place by the steps to the castle? Bring the boys if they’re able.”

“You’re on,” she agrees, while Clint complains that he is absolutely not getting out of bed before noon, fuck you both so much.

“No, thanks,” are Nat’s passing words before she disappears around the door and their room is silent and empty again. 

“Ugh,” Clint groans into the bed. 

“I know,” Phil agrees. Their lives would feel infinitely poorer without Natasha in them.

Clint pushes away from the bed and onto his feet. “Gonna shower. And then I’m gonna come back to bed and you’re gonna fuck me until the neighbours stage a mutiny. Deal? Okay, good. Be right back.”

Phil watches him saunter buck-naked into the bathroom, clothes tracing his path along the plush carpet. They are going to get evicted, with Clint in that kind of mood.

He undresses too, lamenting the fact that he keeps losing tailored shirts to annoying goons. His side is fully healed, but for the thinnest of silver scars where the wound had first opened. It doesn’t really bother him, but he makes a note to find out what the poison they’d used was, if only to add it to the database of banned substances at coven meets. 

With that, he puts the day behind him and focuses on making sure Clint is suitably mollified and made pliant with pleasure and endorphins. He pads into the bathroom too, enjoying the scented steam billowing towards the ceiling. Clint can be spied in the middle of it, languidly washing himself with their shared shower gel, the one that smells subtly different on each of them and gives them an excuse to nuzzle each other in public. 

What a beautiful, captivating man. The water sluices down his winter-pale skin, drawing Phil’s eyes everywhere at once. His hands ache to follow his gaze, touch and caress, feel Clint arch into him like a well-loved cat eager for more petting. Before he is aware of moving, he is pressing close to Clint’s back, trailing kisses down the nape of his neck and up the side. As predicted, Clint luxuriates in it, purring a little as he tilts his head to give Phil better access. His skin is smooth and warm under Phil’s hands, carefully tracing collarbone and abs and beyond. 

“You gonna - ah! - fuck me against the wall again? Mmm, I do rather enjoy that, or you could bend me over the bench and finger me open, wider and wider until I can take you all at once - or that, oh God, _yes, that_ ,” he whimpers when Phil’s mouth moves lower, and lower, and lower. 

It’s the work of a second to brace Clint with one hand and spread him open with the other, tight pink furl exposed and twitching with the need to be touched. Phil licks around it just because he loves to hear Clint’s desperation so much. It ignites an ache inside him to give, possess but also care for. Giving Clint what he asks for, what he needs, is instinctive - he doesn’t even need to think before he moves. 

“Still yes?” he asks, hooking the tip of his thumb into Clint’s hole to open him up some more. 

“What--yes, of course still yes, are you kidding me? Come on, God, please, _do it_.”

Phil goes for it. The taste gets to him as always, musky and a little bitter, perfumed by Clint’s blood so close to the surface. Clint whines high in his throat and presses his chest to the wall, tilts his ass out towards Phil in a silent plea for more. 

_[Got you, baby]_ , Phil tells him, pushing in until his whole tongue is swallowed in heated, flexing muscles. Above him, Clint is breathlessly calling out to deities known and unknown, flushed all the way down to his ass cheeks. It is one of the most beautiful sights Phil has seen in his long life. He licks in and nips at the rim, catches it with a hint of a canine that sends Clint _wild_ , thrashing hard enough that Phil has to exert effort to keep him from slipping. 

“I can’t, I need,” Clint pants, jerking forwards and back like he doesn’t know what he wants more, contact to his cock or more of Phil inside him. “Phil, please.”

Shaky images nudge at his mind - of Clint lying flat out on his front in the bed, with Phil pressed tightly on top of him, holding him and fucking him and weighing him down until Clint can’t move, only take, feel, release control of his self. Phil has to let go of Clint with one hand and brace himself against the wall, because he sways with lightheadedness as all the blood in him rushes to his cock. 

_[Okay]_ , he thinks. Okay. Sure. Whatever Clint wants.

He leans back onto his heels, grinning when Clint sways with him and mutters a complaint. He delights in the glare he gets when he straightens to his feet and tugs Clint out of the shower cubicle. 

“Why are you like this?!” Clint laments when Phil throws him a towel and grabs one for himself. “I swear I never slept with anyone who gave me blue balls half as much as you.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Phil hums; he dodges the balled-up towel thrown viciously at his head. He relents when Clint’s scowl turns mutinous. “Go lie on the bed. On your front, hands to the sides. Then wait for me.”

Anticipate what’s coming, he wants to say. Let the want and the need wind you up tight, think about what it’s going to feel like when I climb over you and press three fingers inside, just on the edge of what you can easily take, just a hint of too much stretch. Think about my body pressing you down, my cock slipping inside you while you can do nothing but let me in. He says none of that out loud, nor spells it out in Clint’s head. He does broadcast the feel of sliding on top of Clint, trapping him underneath, much too strong to budge unless he wants to move. 

Clint shudders, full-bodied. His pupils are blown wide, eyes feverishly bright, so blue that it digs inside Phil’s chest a little to see them like that. Under the skin, the mark throbs and burns, washing Clint in liquid heat. He swears, long and inventive, but he heads off to do exactly as Phil asked. If ever Phil was in any doubt, the heavy swing of hard cock and tight balls between Clint’s legs would put paid to it. 

Phil takes his time drying himself off, despite the rhythmic clenching of his core driving him to rush, hurry to his lover and sink inside his body. He can feel Clint’s urgency, _close, need, come on damn it_ in the back of his mind. Giving in to it, he finally drops his towel and walks into the room to feast his eyes on a sight that trumps a thousand Renaissance masterpieces. 

“Phil,” Clint whispers lowly. “Phil, please.”

Fuck the rest of the game. Phil needs now, too. The vulnerability inherent in the position he had directed Clint into tears at him, drives him closer, now, to protect what is more precious to him than his own life. 

“I’m here,” he whispers back. The lube is still where they abandoned it that morning, in the side drawer beside a packet of Kleenex, a tube of face cream and Phil’s half-read book. He takes it out and squeezes a good amount onto his fingers, too impatient himself to wait until it warms before he is rubbing it into Clint’s skin, and then into Clint. Three fingers at once, like he promised; the clench of Clint’s body around him is so, so erotic, like Clint is trying to keep him inside and never let him leave. There is nothing Phil wants more in the world. 

He lies on top of Clint, closes his fingers around Clint’s wrists, and thrusts his hips against the incredible heat of Clint’s ass, slides his cock over the crease and between the cheeks to nudge at Clint’s balls, and lets the need ramp up inside him at the way Clint spreads his legs, arches into it, pants wetly against their arms twisted together. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Clint is chanting under his breath, and so Phil finally lets them have what they both want, lifts himself up to nudge slowly into Clint’s slick hole. 

They gasp in unison, arch in opposite directions that bring them ever closer. He slides in and in and in, until his groin is pressed against Clint’s ass and he is all the way inside. 

“How,” Clint chokes, sucks in air, tries again. “How is it always so good?”

“Because it’s you,” Phil says, overcome himself. 

“Because it’s _you_ ,” Clint argues, because the man will argue with Death herself when she shows up to claim him. Which will be a very, _very_ long time from now, and only if she’s taking Phil along with him. 

Clint smothers Phil’s name in a moan against the pillow, shifts his arms a little but only to feel Phil hold him tightly, enough to let him let go. 

“Love you,” Phil says against his ear, sucking on the lobe as he thrusts hard inside. “Always.”

“Always, always,” Clint echoes. 

He is warm through, and loved, and needed, and he wants for nothing, nothing at all. 

When they come, it is within minutes of each other; Clint first, too overwhelmed and wound up from earlier to last. His mind opens out and out and out, and Phil is suffused and battered by his pleasure; and he too lets himself go, buries himself in his lover with cock and teeth and mind, lets his orgasm crest and flow over to Clint’s quiet urging. 

“Gonna need another shower,” Clint slurs once Phil lets him up and they adjust to lie wrapped in each other’s arms.

“Tomorrow." 

“Gross,” Clint observes, but Phil notes he makes no move to get out of bed.

“Do you think Steve will turn back okay?” Clint asks sometime later. Phil would have sworn he was on the edge of sleep, but apparently not yet. The sky is lightening on the horizon, a stripe of pinkish orange visible from their window.

“I hope so. If not, we’ll set Doc Liz on him.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Clint says admiringly. 

“Gotta get my kicks somehow.”

“Hey. I give you _plenty_ of kicks.”

“In the head, maybe.”

“Ugh,” Clint mutters, burying his face closer to Phil’s neck.

Phil reaches down to draw the duvet over them, tightening his arms around Clint again as soon as they’re settled. He doesn’t reply. He knows what Clint really means. 

“Also, for the record, Steve is _not_ a better cuddler than me.”

“My God. We might as well have let Natasha stay. Shut up and go the fuck to sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> [SPOILER FOR FIC] If anyone should fancy writing the werewolf Steve part in more detail, PLEASE TO BE DOING THAT. *___* I wanted to add more of it in, but this was supposed to be a Short Fic, damn it. /0\


End file.
